


A Case of Normal

by WhimsicalEthnographies



Series: The Greatest Game [8]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Johnlock - Freeform, Lestrade Saves The Day, M/M, Pre-Relationship, filler chapter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-09
Updated: 2014-07-09
Packaged: 2018-02-08 01:53:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1922292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhimsicalEthnographies/pseuds/WhimsicalEthnographies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mostly filler, a wrap-up.  221B Baker Street is a little weird, but then Lestrade saves the day and texts with a double-murder.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Case of Normal

John is pretty sure he’s read the same sentence eighteen times over. He sets down the paper he’s supposed to be reviewing—why did he tell Mike he’d do this anyway?—and rubs his eyes. He could use a cup of tea but Sherlock is hunched over his microscope in the kitchen table and John doesn’t feel like wading into that mess.

It’s been just over a week since he forced Sherlock to reveal his scars and the tension in the flat has been unbearable. John feels like he’s being smothered. And if he feels that way, how does Sherlock feel?

Truthfully, John knows he shouldn’t have been so forceful about it. He should have sat Sherlock down and simply asked. He may not have gotten an answer right away, but at least they wouldn’t be in this situation. But he was just so angry, so upset, and not only because Sherlock was hurting. That was a big part of it, John has learned that when Sherlock truly hurts—and he does hurt, no matter what he claims—John feels the sting too. It wasn’t all of it, though. John was mad, that once again, a part of Sherlock was hidden from him. Sherlock kept something from _him._

John sniffs and remembers how upset he was to walk into the apartment and find Janine. It was months ago and it still smarts. Sure, he was jealous in a very juvenile way, but more than that, he was upset he didn’t know something about Sherlock. _His_ Sherlock. Or like the thirty days before that when Sherlock had no contact with him, and he found him in the drug den. Or when it took Sherlock almost a week to text him after he stepped off the plane.   John simply doesn’t like when something is kept from him with regards to Sherlock. He knows it’s entirely possessive and definitely not healthy, but it simply is. It angers John, thinking that perhaps he doesn’t know his person as well as he thought. Because Sherlock is _his_ person. 

This was worse than all of that a thousand times over, because not only did he not know what happened to Sherlock in his time away, but he held resentment over it.   A part of him still hated that he had been left behind, and he was forced to face the fact that Sherlock had gone through hell during those two years as well.

_“Alright. Alright, Sherlock.” John took a deep breath and straightened, wiping his face. Sherlock was still kneeling on the floor, curled in on himself, forehead pressed against the tiles. He didn’t move._

_“Hey, Sherlock, come on.” John gently rubbed Sherlock’s shoulder, then tenderly squeezed the back of his neck. “Come on, let’s get you up, alright? Alright?” He gripped his arms and hauled him to his feet. John grabbed the towel and wrapped it around hiss waist, tucking it in on itself. Even in a situation like that, the intimacy of the act caused a ball of heat to glow in John’s gut. He hated himself for it as he guided him into his bedroom and sat him on the bed._

_“John.”_

_“Here, put these on, get into bed.” John had found a pair of cotton pajama pants and t-shirts after rifling through the dresser. He handed them to Sherlock. “I’ll be back, I’m going to finish the tea.” John lifted his hand, hesitated a moment, then laid it gently on his head. “Biscuits, too. You should eat.” He ruffled his wet curls, then left to turn off the whistling kettle._

_When John returned, armed with a small tray of biscuits and tea, Sherlock had surprisingly followed orders. He was dressed and curled up on his side under the covers, back to the door. He sat on the bed, carefully placed the tray on the nightstand._

_“You don’t have to talk.” John said gently, and touched Sherlock’s shoulder gently. “But you need to know I’ll listen. And please believe I would have stopped it.”_

_“I know that, John.”_

_“I’m so sorry Sherlock. So sorry. I thought you were off having a grand time and I was stuck back here, grieving and missing you and wondering what I could have done. I had no idea.”_

_“I missed you, too, John.” Sherlock still hadn’t turned to face him. “But I’m glad you weren’t there. You couldn’t have been. It would have been too dangerous, and if something happened…if, well, I suppose I needed a reason to make sure I came back. With you here, I had that. It hurt, immensely, but it was necessary. So you did help.”_

_John sniffed and squeezed Sherlock’s shoulder. “Drink your tea. I’m right out there if you need me.”_

_When John was on the other side of the door, he broke down._

It has been awkward and strained after that. Better than after the dream, but to John it feels as if a new weight settled as soon as the original one lifted. Sherlock didn’t hole himself up in his room, he ate and drank and did his nasty experiments, but he’s apprehensive, skittish. One morning, after coming out of the shower, John had reached out and ruffled his hair as he passed—something he did fairly regularly—and Sherlock flinched at his touch. He was almost meek, not the whirlwind John was used to, even in his bad moods. So much for moving forward. John feels decidedly like they’ve taken eight steps back, even with new information aired.

“Chinese for dinner?” John calls into the kitchen.

“Fine.”

“Or Thai? How about Thai?”

“Fine.”

John glances around and frowns. Sherlock hasn’t moved an inch.

“How about Angelo’s? I haven’t eaten there since before…before.”

“Mmmm.”

John sighs. “Sherlock—”

“John, I’m busy.”

“You remember what I said? I’ll listen.”

“About what, John?” To John’s surprise, Sherlock jumps up so quickly the stool is knocked back. It clatters to the floor. “What would you like to listen to?” He stalks into the sitting room, towering over his chair. “Would you rather hear about the knives or the meat hook? Or the cigarettes? _MY_ cigarettes? Maybe the propane torch they also used to toast bread during breaks?”

“Sh-Sherlock—”

“John, you don’t want to hear about it, and I don’t want to talk about it! Leave it be!” Sherlock’s eyes spark, more life than John’s seen in them in two days, then he stomps back out of the room. John expects to hear his bedroom door slam shut, so he’s surprised to hear the stool clatter as Sherlock sets it upright, the scrape as it slides when he sits.

“You’re right.” John inhales sharply. “I don’t _want_ to hear about it. I don’t _want_ to hear about how people hurt you and I wasn’t there. But when you _need_ me to listen, I will. Sherlock. That’s all I’m saying.”

He doesn’t answer and the heavy silence settles back into the flat. John orders their dinner and then sits in silence as the sitting room grows dark as the sun sets. The only light comes from the kitchen where Sherlock pores over his slides. John forces himself out of the chair to the shelf on the wall, takes a bottle of scotch and a glass. He needs something to dull the sharp edges of the new images in his brain. The scars are no longer vague marks, not now when he knows the tools that caused them. He takes a large swallow, relishing the burn down his chest.

“John!” Sherlock jumps again. He’s looking at his phone. “Lestrade!” He flicks off the microscope light. “A double-murder. I’ve been summoned!”

“Sherlock, you, you sure you—” But he is already in front of him, holding out his coat.

“A case, John!”

“You want me to come?” John sets down his glass. He doesn’t want to push his luck.

“Of course, don’t be ridiculous.” Sherlock sneers as he ties his scarf and turns to the door. “Let’s go!”

“Ok, then.” John puts his coat on and grabs his shoes. He hears Sherlock from the landing.

“JOHN!”

**Author's Note:**

> Mehhhhh....I had to close it somehow to move on. They need to just kiss already. GOD! Idiots.


End file.
